For better waters, now, the little smack
Of my inwit hoists its sail
Leaving behind the bottomlesss gulf,
Whose misery gouged deep its keel.
I will sing now of that strange island
Where the good dead are made better
And beaten into pure form,
Becoming fit to build on Earth a better place.
Oh Oulipo, who set free my voice,
Here let dead poetry live again,
And let Calliope sing along with that sweet
Contralto, whose strain shut the magpies up for good.
Like a photoshopped image of dawn
The radiant light of the sunshine coast
Burst from the horizon,
Blinding my dimmed sight with its refulgence,
So that I had to narrow the slits of my eyes
Which had grown accustomed to Hell’s dark.
Like distant laughter,
The planet Beckett described inIll Seen Ill Said
Rose above the fishing boats anchored offshore.
I turned to the right, fixing my peepers on the
Other pole,
where I saw four wind turbines gleaming:
The sky seemed to welcome their giant forms
As their blades began to turn
Bringing clean energy across the waters.
When I had finished gawping, I checked the football
On my phone – the ball was passed back in front of goal,
To where Wayne should have been, but he was gone.
I saw nearby an old man, standing alone,
his hair was all white,
his complexion bright,
And as I gazed into his eyes I recognised
Once more a man I had met on Earth,
The tenant of Bottengoms, author ofAkenfield.
The breeze that swept across the shore
lofted his hair
Like a rock star’s in front of a wind-machine.
‘Who are you, travellers, who have escaped
The eternal prison inside the Knowledge Gateway?’
He said, eyeing us haughtily.
‘How did you get here, against the blind current,
Or have the bus routes changed,
Or the laws of the VC been broken?
Is there a new edict in Senate such that
The damned, on day release, may wander into my
Caravan Park unchecked, from the Infernal Campus?’
Berrigan, my guide, seized me from behind,
And with a word in my ear and a nudge with his knee
Made me bend down and pay my respects.
Then he replied: ‘I didn’t come here of my
Own volition. A lady from London, lauded by
Knopfler – you may know the song, “Lady Writer” –
Asked me to help this man out of a fix.
But since you’re asking what the Hell
We’re doing here, let me put you straight.
This man has yet to pop his clogs,
But, through his misfortune, was so damn close to death
That there was barely time to turn things round.
As I’ve said, I was sent
To rescue him, and the only way was down,
The only way was Essex.
Already I have shown him all the damned souls
In the Infernal Campus, now I want him to see the good dead
Who come to rehab, here on the Essex coast.
How we got here?
How long have you got, old man? Put it this way –
When we set out on our journey through Hell,
Three days since, nobody had heard of Covid-19,
And now I’ve got a signal on my phone it’s all I read about.
From the AHRC comes the funding that brings him here,
So don’t think about turning us back,
Make us welcome, like refugees fleeing a warzone,
We’ve seen some shit, so give us a break man.
Senate’s edicts have no hold on us;
For this man still lives, and I am no lackey of Landman.
I’m from the same zone as your friend Imogen Holst –
Along with another bunch of artists –
She still talks fondly of you, so for her sake,
If for no other reason,
Let us travel through your seven zones.
I’ll give her a big hug for you
If you don’t grudge being mentioned in that place.’
‘Three days, you say,’ he mumbled,
‘I think you’ve been in Hell longer than you think,
But time can do funny things down there.’
Then he pulled on a face mask and approached us gingerly,
Pointing a temperature gun at our chests.
‘Looks like your Covid-free, but I have to be sure,’
He said. ‘Like New Zealand, this island is
Virus-free, but I mean to keep it that way.
Any arrivals from the mainland have to self-isolate
Before making the trip over the water,
And we check them once more on disembarkation,
We don’t want to take any unnecessary risks.’
Relaxing a little, he went on: ‘When I was working
For dear Ben at the Aldeburgh Festival in its infancy
Imo was so pleasing to my eyes
That everything she asked of me I did.
Now that she dwells beyond the evil river
She can no longer move me, such things are governed
By an immutable law buried in the university charter.
But if this lady from London, winner of the Holberg Prize,
Moves and commands you, just ask in her name.
Go then, and see that you hitch up this man’s
Trousers – a smooth rush should do it – and wipe off
All this filth
That has so clouded his face
He looks like a paramilitary:
To climb this mountain you’ll need to look smart.
All around the border of this little island,
There where the waves erode the shore,
Are rushes growing out of soft clay.
No other plants that put forth leaf or lignin
Are able to thrive here, for they cannot
Yield to the constant buffeting of the North Sea.
Once you’re done, don’t return by this way.
The sun, which just now is rising,
Will show you the best route to tackle this mountain.’
With that, he disappeared; and I stood up,
Without a word, dusted myself down,
And rejoined Berrigan who was lighting a smoke.
He took a draw, then said: ‘Let’s go dude, we must turn back,
The beach here slopes...
